[A World That Might Have Been] Stark

[Perhaps existing spacetime]

Stark's birth time wasn't ideal. If he had been born a decade or so earlier, he would have been born during the years when the Demon King was defeated and peace was just beginning to arrive.

But he was born not long after the death of the hero Himmel, in a remote village on the edge of the Northern Frontier that revered martial prowess.

The village is isolated in a corner of the world, and people believe in strength. Almost everyone takes pride in becoming a powerful warrior.

His father was the Village Chief and once the strongest warrior in the village. An old scar on his brow bone silently spoke of his past bravery, which he always covered with an eye patch. He named his youngest son "Stark," meaning "strong," his expectations for him were self-evident.

However, Stark seems to have failed the name. At least, perhaps that's how his father saw it.

He harbored a timidity and gentleness that was incompatible with that of a warrior. By the age of five, he would instinctively shrink back at the sight of a thick wooden training post, let alone face a ferocious monster. To his father, who revered absolute strength and courage, this was almost a disgrace.

In contrast, his brother Stoltz perfectly fulfilled the family's expectations.

The older brother's name means "pride". He has a head of bright red hair that shines like flames, neatly combed back. He has a broad forehead and eyes as bright as stars. He always wears a spotless pure white cloak that symbolizes the strongest warrior in the village. His demeanor exudes a proud and awe-inspiring air, which makes his father very satisfied.

Stark deeply admired his older brother. He longed for the day when he too could hear his father say, "You are truly my son."

So, near the village's open space, one could often see a thin, red figure vigorously swinging a wooden sword at a rough wooden stake that was much taller than himself.

"Hey! Hey!" The five-year-old boy's shouts were still childish, and sweat slid down his forehead, splashing into the hardened soil beneath his feet, leaving dark spots.

"Sigh, this child is a failure. He's too soft-hearted and doesn't deserve his name. He's five years old and still can't hunt monsters alone." The father, still carrying the faint scent of blood from hunting monsters, shook his head and said to his eldest son beside him as he watched his youngest son's clumsy but desperate movements after returning from training.

His single eye held undisguised disappointment. That day they had hunted a rather ferocious monster, and his brother Stoltz's cloak remained pristine white and spotless.

"I'll go give him some pointers," Stoltz said, walking towards his younger brother who was still practicing diligently.

"Be mindful of your boundaries, don't go too far," the father said casually before turning and leaving.

"Hey! Hey!" The boy was completely focused, his face tense, and he didn't notice anyone approaching.

"Ha!" He mustered all his strength and swung the wooden sword down—but missed his mark and struck the edge of the muddy ditch next to the wooden stake. A few drops of mud landed on the hem of his brother's snow-white cloak, leaving a few glaring stains.

"Ah!" The boy suddenly realized, looking at the conspicuous mud stains on his cloak, he immediately lowered his head in fright, his voice barely audible, "I'm... I'm sorry..."

Stoltz paused, glanced down at his cloak, and stared blankly for a long while.

But then she reached out and ruffled her younger brother's bright red hair, which was just as vibrant as her own. "It's okay. It means you're practicing hard, which is a good thing."

"..." The boy pursed his lips tightly, feeling both grateful for his brother's tolerance and filled with even deeper guilt. He could only secretly vow to work harder, hoping that one day he could catch a glimpse of his father.

His father was always strict with him and rarely smiled. Only his older brother would secretly bake him a fragrant and surprisingly thick Hamburg Steak on his birthday.

"Shh... don't let Father know." My brother would always smile and remind me, his beautiful eyes crinkling.

That period of time, with his brother as a protective wall, was a rare, warm bright spot in the midst of arduous training. He sometimes felt that if things could continue like that, it wouldn't be so bad.

However, this fragile peace was soon shattered.

That day, he was practicing swordsmanship by the stream outside the village when he suddenly saw a raging fire rising in the direction of the village.

His heart tightened, and he grabbed the wooden sword and ran back as fast as he could, though he had no idea what he could do if he went back.

"Stark, go!" These were the last words his brother said to him as he rushed back to the village entrance, panting and feeling as if his lungs were burning.

He eventually fled. Faced with a terrifying presence that even his brother, father, and the entire village's warriors couldn't withstand combined, what could he do but run away like a stray dog?

"Boring, kid, just leave. I have no interest in deserters."

He vaguely heard the Demons standing in the center of the village, his boots casually stepping on his father's lifeless body—he later learned that the Demons was named "The Bloodstained War God" Rivale —speaking in a disdainful tone. He did not stop him from escaping.

"Is that so? Well then... thank you for your 'kindness'." The voice of the older brother Stoltz, came through, unusually calm.

He raised his sword and, along with the remaining warriors, like moths drawn to a flame, resolutely faced the invincible enemy.

"So... you ran away." The dwarf warrior named Eisen spoke in a deep voice after listening to the boy's fragmented account, filled with shame and fear. His bronze face revealed no emotion.

For some reason, this powerful warrior, who exuded an aura of calm and steadiness like a mountain, took him in.

Eisen's training was a hundred times more rigorous than his father's. Every time he was so exhausted that his muscles ached and he collapsed to the ground, feeling like he was about to faint, Eisen would simply poke him lightly with that smooth wooden stick and say concisely, "Get up. Warriors are not allowed to lie on the ground."

But Eisen would also use his meager savings to treat him to an enormous sundae.

Time passed quietly, Stark turned fifteen. After a fierce argument, his long-suppressed grievances, exhaustion, and self-loathing suddenly erupted. He even shouted out his pent-up resentment to his master, Eisen, who had raised and taught him for many years.

For the first time, Eisen seemed genuinely enraged, slamming a punch that whistled through the air onto his face. Stark's vision went black, a tearing pain shooting through his forehead, and warm liquid gushed out—leaving a deep scar there that would stay with him for the rest of his life.

He covered his face and staggered to the ground. He saw his master with a gloomy face, his clenched fists trembling slightly, his beard twitching, but he remained silent.

He left his master's residence with a mix of pain and resentment, wandering aimlessly until he finally settled near a seemingly peaceful, remote village.

One day, a terrifying roar that ripped through the sky shattered the tranquility—it was a dragon! A colossal dragon, its entire body crimson and its scales blazing like fire, was wreaking havoc on the village!

Its massive body easily destroyed houses, and its sharp claws, carrying a deathly wind, were about to fall on an old woman who was curled up on the ground, tightly protecting the child in her arms!

Before his brain could even process it, his body acted. Almost instinctively, he rushed forward, gripping the familiar battle axe tightly, and with his still slightly trembling body, he stood between the dragon and the tiny grandfather and grandson.

Fear instantly permeated his entire being. His legs went weak, his jaw chattered uncontrollably, and he could barely hold onto the heavy axe handle.

The dragon stood upright, its two front claws sweeping casually, tearing apart two houses beside it as easily as cutting tofu. Then it opened its huge mouth and let out a deafening roar, a stench of hot air hitting it and almost suffocating it.

"My God..." Stark was so frightened that he closed his eyes tightly, his legs felt like lead, and he couldn't move even if he wanted to run away, but he still gripped the axe tightly.

However, the expected excruciating pain did not come. He didn't know how much time had passed—perhaps just a moment, or perhaps eternity—before he trembled and opened one eye a crack. He saw that the dragon seemed to have lost interest. Its huge wings flapped, stirring up dust, and its massive body soared into the air and disappeared into the clouds.

And so, almost absurdly, he was hailed as a hero by the villagers who had survived the ordeal.

For the next three years, Stark lived in the village. Deep down, he felt immense guilt and was ashamed to face his master Eisen. He felt that he had ultimately failed his master's expectations, and that the punch he received was the punishment he deserved.

The title of village hero was like an ill-fitting, heavy robe draped over his still timid soul.

Until one day, he heard that someone had organized a campaign to hunt down the evil dragon known as the "Red Mirror Dragon." The leader was an elf Frieren, who was said to be an old acquaintance of his master, Eisen.

Reports indicate that due to the Red Mirror Dragon's extremely high magic resistance, only a strong warrior could hold it off for a full thirty seconds before Frieren could deliver a fatal blow.

"This job... does it really have to be me?" He was torn between his conscience and his conscience, but when he thought of the trusting looks in the villagers' eyes when they called him a "hero," and when he thought of his brother's last figure, he finally gritted his teeth and accepted this life-or-death task.

He forcefully suppressed the scream that threatened to burst from his throat and stood once again before the terrifying, mountain-like figure of the Red Mirror Dragon. This time, there was no room for chance; the dragon's cold, vertical pupils clearly reflected his tiny, insect-like figure.

"Sky-Splitting Strike!" After several clumsy dodges and futile parries, he roared out the move with all his might.

"Frieren! Do it!" Thirty seconds felt like an eternity spent on a knife's edge.

"Hey! It's way past the time! You old geezer..." he shouted hoarsely, his voice filled with anxiety.

"It's over." Frieren's characteristically calm and even voice came from behind.

"What?" Stark was stunned and turned around blankly.

"The dragon is dead," Frieren added, her tone still flat.

Dead? Killed by me? He turned his head in disbelief, looking at the massive body of the Red Mirror Dragon, which was gradually dissipating into specks of light. He alone... had actually... killed a dragon?

"Eisen hit him not because of disappointment, but because he had developed a fear of Stark. Dragons are also wary of powerful monsters; he flew away not for any other reason than because he was wary of Stark."

Later, he met a man whose temperament bore a striking resemblance to his father. Coincidentally, the man's deceased eldest son also bore a resemblance to him.

This man also had a second son, about four or five years old, who was practicing sword-wielding in the afterglow of the setting sun in the courtyard, his little face flushed red.

"What... do you think of him?" In the child's stubborn figure, Stark clearly saw his former self.

"His talent... is not as good as his brother's..." The one-eyed man looked at the young boy and spoke slowly, his voice carrying a hint of complexity that was hard to detect.

Stark's heart sank, expecting to hear the same assessment as his father.

"But..." the man's tone shifted slightly, his gaze still fixed on the child, "... this child is also very hardworking. He is also my pride."

Stark paused slightly, looking into the man's last remaining eyes, reflecting the setting sun, where a glimmer of light seemed to flash—a light completely different from his father's.

"You should talk to him about this more," Stark said softly.

The man's one eye turned to look at him, his gaze deep and penetrating, as if he could see right through him.

"I often told him... that's why he got a bit cocky a while ago, and even neglected his training... it wasn't until his brother died that he went back to how he is now."

"... Yeah."

Stark was silent for a moment, then finally gave a very soft reply. It seemed he truly was... just like his father.